You kept it because you thought it might save her. That it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. Hang on to it. Now tell me this. What was the relationship between Rankin and Miss Grant?’
‘I can’t discuss anything of that sort,’ said Angela coldly.
‘My dear child, this is no time for coming over all county with me. I quite appreciate your scruples, but they are not worth much when they are used to screen a murderer or to cast suspicion on an innocent person. I shouldn’t ask you unless I had to. Let me tell you what I think. There was an understanding between Rankin and Miss Grant. He wanted her to marry him. She had refused because of his relationship with another woman. Am I right?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘Was she fond of him?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was what I wanted to know. Was she jealous?’
‘No, no! Not jealous, but she—she felt it very deeply indeed.’
Alleyn opened his note-book again, and drew out a fragment of blotting-paper and passed it to Angela. ‘Take your handglass and look at that,’ he said.
Angela obeyed him, and then passed the blotting-paper and mirror to Nigel. He read without difficulty:
‘October 10th: Dear Joyce, I’m sorry to muddle your pl…’
‘Whose writing is that?’ asked Alleyn.
‘It is Rosamund’s,’ said Angela.
‘It was written after seven-thirty on Saturday night at the desk in the elbow of the drawing-room,’ commented the inspector, looked at Nigel. ‘At seven-thirty the excellent Ethel had tidied the desk and put out fresh blotting-paper. On Sunday morning, noticing the stains on this sheet, she turned it under, putting a clean sheet on top.’
‘So you imagine—?’ Nigel began.
‘I do not imagine; detectives aren’t allowed to imagine. They note probabilities. I am firmly of the opinion that Miss Grant overheard, with you, the duologue between Mrs Wilde and Rankin. It was she who turned out the lights and nipped out ahead of you on your leaving the drawing-room.’
‘I’m quite at sea,’ complained Angela.
Nigel told her briefly of the conversation he had overheard from the gun-room. Angela was silent for a few minutes. Then she turned to Alleyn.
‘There is one factor in this case,’ she began in a quaintly pedantic manner, ‘that puzzles me above all others.’
‘Will my learned friend propound?’ asked Alleyn solemnly.
‘I am about to do so. Why, oh why, did the murderer sound the gong? I can understand his turning out the lights. He knew that in doing so, by the rules of the murder game, he ensured himself a clear two minutes to get away. But why, oh why, did he bang the gong?’
‘To keep up the illusion of the game?’ Nigel speculated.
‘It seems so incredible somehow—to make a proclamatory gesture like that. Darkness he would welcome, yes, but to start that clamour—it sounds so—so psychologically unsound.’
‘My learned friend’s point is well urged,’ said Alleyn. ‘But I put it to her that the murderer or murderess did not sound the gong.’
‘Then,’ said Nigel and Angela together, ‘who did?’
‘Rankin.’
‘What!’ they shouted.
‘Rankin sounded the gong.’
‘What the devil do you mean?’ ejaculated Nigel.
‘I’m not going to give all my tricks away, and this is such a very simple one that you ought to have seen it yourselves.’ Nigel and Angela merely stared blankly at each other.
‘Well, we don’t,’ said Nigel flatly.
‘Later perhaps it may dawn,’ commented the detective. ‘In the meantime, how about a run up to London tonight?’
‘To London—what for?’
‘I hear that you, Miss Angela, are the fastest thing known off the dirt track, and when I use the expression “the fastest thing” I use it literally, not colloquially. Will you, without explaining your movements to anyone, drive this young ornament of the Press up to London in the Bentley and do a job of work for me? I will talk to your uncle about it for you.’
‘Now—tonight?’ said Angela.
‘It is getting dark. I think you may start in half an hour. You must be back here when it gets light tomorrow morning, but I hope you may return long before dawn. On second thoughts I think I shall accompany you.’
He looked, apparently in some amusement, at the not conspicuously delighted faces of the other two.
‘I shall sleep in the back seat,’ he added vaguely. ‘I’ve had too many late nights.’
‘Will you come, Nigel?’ Angela asked.
‘Of course I will,’ said Nigel. ‘What are we to do when we get there?’
‘If you will give me the pleasure of dining with me, both of you, I will explain myself then. Now, just one more question: you heard Mr Rankin’s story of how he became possessed of the knife with which he was killed. Can either of you remember anything, anything at all, that Rankin said which would serve to describe the man who gave it to him?’
‘What did Charles say, Nigel?’ asked Angela after a pause.
Alleyn crossed to the windows and stood by the drawn curtains. He looked singularly alert.
‘He told us,’ said Nigel thoughtfully, ‘that a Russian whom he met in Switzerland gave it to him. He said it had been sent to him. It was in return for some service Charles did this Russian.’
‘And that was?’ Alleyn moved back into the room.
‘I think he said something about pulling him out of a crevasse.’
‘That’s all?’
‘I can’t remember anything else, can you, Angela?’
‘I’m trying to think,’ murmured Angela.
‘Did you gather that they had become friends? Did Rankin describe the man?’
‘No,’ said Nigel.
‘N-no, but he said something else,’ Angela asserted.
‘What could it have been? Think now. Was it something about the accident that led to this incident? Were either of them injured? What!’ Angela had uttered a short exclamation.
‘That’s
